He’d peered at dozens of spines of what had turned out to be novels, arranged alphabetically by the author’s surname. He didn’t know much about books but he’d heard of some of the writers: Jane Austen and Charles Dickens and, a little further along, that chap George Eliot.

But he wasn’t searching for that kind of book. Perhaps the library didn’t have what he was looking for. In the same way that station names and signposts had been removed, maps and atlases might have been destroyed, in case of invasion.

He suddenly had a horrid image of being gagged and tied to a chair, while a snarling Nazi in grey uniform aimed a pointy finger at him. ‘Tell us the vey to Oxford, now!’ Ray was shaking his head and yelling – as much as he could, given the gag – ‘Never! I’ll never tell you!’

His stomach twisted at the thought of what they might do next. Let’s face it, as soon as he was pushed into the chair, he’d blab. He went hot at the thought.

Five minutes ago, when he’d finally found what he’d been looking for, he’d been jubilant. Geronimo! If the book hadn’t been so dusty – and the ladder so wobbly – he’d have raised it to his lips and kissed it.

Other, braver chaps would laugh at the idea – it was hardly derring-do, after all – but facing his fear of heights like this was quite a trial.

He wasn’t even sure if he was allowed in here. On arrival, they’d been given a tour of the rooms allocated to them and it hadn’t included the library. Ray hadn’t asked, in case the answer was no, he’d simply taken himself off after dinner and found it.

He still felt guilty about the way he’d snapped at Maggie Corbett yesterday. He’d thought she was being frivolous, spending her break writing to a sweetheart. At least, that had been his first thought. He hadn’t meant to sound so cross. Blimey, her bottom lip had actually wobbled and then, it turned out, she was only writing to her little sister, an evacuee. Maggie had come to the countryside to be nearer to her. He’d have done the same. Family was everything, after all.

Once he’d found the library, he’d scoured the lower shelves first, without luck, so had no choice but to ignore his churning stomach and the sweat forming on his brow and climb up onto the rolling ladder, a strange contraption that rattled along the shelves on runners. He couldn’t imagine this place got an awful lot of use and he hoped the ladder was still in working order. If it suddenly broke free and he fell back, pulling the shelf down on top of him, he’d be crushed by about a hundredweight of books.